Chameleon's Shadow

DI Beale stepped in when his boss didn’t say anything. ‘What did she use to smash it, Lieutenant?’

There was a slight hesitation. ‘Probably a hammer. I kept a tool box at her flat.’

Beale nodded as if the matter were of little importance. ‘She obviously has a violent streak,’ he said idly. ‘Did she use ever the hammer against you?’

Acland’s expression closed abruptly. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure? You called yourself a laboratory rat earlier . . . talked about pressing the wrong buttons. Did you discover too late that you’d signed up to a coke-addicted bunny-boiler instead of an Uma Thurman fantasy?’

*

Jackson stared down at the exposed wooden club. She was no expert in African artefacts but the polished rounded head and stock reminded her of a picture she’d seen of a Zulu knobkerrie. There was no reason for her to place any particular significance on it – the police hadn’t shared their forensic findings with her – but the hairs on the back of her neck bristled anyway. She’d read enough of the newspaper coverage to know that the three victims of the ‘gay killer’ had been beaten to death.

Of rather more weight in her decision to step away, leave everything as it was and call the police to come to her were the two mobiles lying beside the stun gun, one of which had a strip of Dynotape stuck to its front.... . . saying ‘Harry Peel’.

*

Jones uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. ‘I think it was you who was the abuser, Charles. You’ve got a real temper on you when you’re angry, and we all know how undignified it is having to beg for sex.’ Acland moved his palms to gain a better purchase against the wall. ‘You obviously know more about that than I do.’ Jones smiled slightly. ‘I’ve never been reduced to raping a woman because I couldn’t get it any other way. And I don’t go looking at Holocaust exhibitions to wallow in misery over my own behaviour either. Did that make you feel better . . . salve your conscience . . . because the Nazis had done worse to the Jews?’ Acland took a shallow breath and put his head back. ‘That’s not how it was.’ ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You and Ms Morley had a business deal . . . compensation for a broken laptop. That’s some revenge from a man who claims not to care about possessions.’ ‘You don’t know the first thing about it.’ ‘I know this much, you don’t behave like a man who’s at peace with himself. What are you ashamed of? That you regularly beat her . . . or that you allowed her to do it to you?’

Silence.

‘I’m guessing you came in here to drown your sorrows . . . to think about things.’ He put a cynical stress on the words. ‘Did you target Harry Peel because he annoyed you? You wouldn’t be the first pussy-whipped man to take out his frustrations on a complete stranger.’

Beale made another move to intervene. Jones’s relentless belittling provocation was driving the lieutenant deep into the corner. His pallor was catastrophic. Even his lips were bloodless. ‘You have to stop, Brian. This is too much. He needs a doctor.’

With an irritated sigh, Jones stood up and shoved his chair in front of Acland. ‘For God’s sake, sit down before you fall over. What makes you think a trained soldier is any better equipped to deal with a violent woman than the rest of us? If we fight back, we give her the opportunity to paint herself as a victim . . . If we don’t, we’re in danger of taking a knife between the ribs. Why would you want to defend her?’

Acland ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth to generate some saliva but, even so, his voice sounded brittle when he spoke. ‘I’m defending myself.’

‘Against what?’

‘Whatever your next accusation’s going to be.’ His tongue rasped against his dry palate. ‘Last time it was Mr Tutting . . . This time you started with a taxi driver who was murdered . . . then a civil servant . . . Now it’s rape and humiliation.’

Jones pointed to the chair. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘I’m damned if I’ll end up in another fight because I have to force you.’ He watched Beale pour a glass of water, then perched on the side of the bed as Acland lowered himself on to the chair. ‘I want to know why you came back to Bermondsey and why you’re involved in this investigation.’

Acland took the water with a muttered ‘Thank you’ and drank it at one swallow, before bending forward to place the glass on the floor then pressing his left hand to his eyepatch. ‘Maybe you should ring Dr Campbell and ask her to explain synchronicity to you.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘If you look for meaning in random events, you’ll probably find it.’

*

Jackson’s call was put through to DC Khan. As he listened to what she had to say, he was reading an email on his monitor.

‘Re. urgent request for fingerprint identification on body taken from river this a.m. Match found with Paul Hadley, 68. Awaiting trial on indecent assault charges against a minor. Registered address 23 Albion Street, Peckham SE15. No known family. Photograph attached.

He clicked on the attachment and stared at the mug shot of Paul Hadley.

‘I hear what you say, Dr Jackson, and I understand your frustrations, but first I’d appreciate confirmation of a photograph I have on my computer. I think it has a bearing on what you’ve found in your car. Do you have a 3G mobile? I’d like you to confirm whether the man in the photograph is the one you know as Chalky.’

*

‘Why should I accept that any of this is random?’ asked Jones. ‘You drank in the same pub as Harry Peel . . . you were in possession of Kevin Atkins’s mobile . . . and you spoke to Walter Tutting a couple of hours before he was attacked. I’m looking for connections, not meanings.’ ‘It amounts to the same thing.’ ‘Not in my book it doesn’t. Anyone can invent meaning after the event – it depends how irrational you’re prepared to be – my job is about understanding causes.’ ‘I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,’ Acland pointed out, ‘so this interview is entirely random . . . and all in your favour. It wouldn’t be happening if I’d let Jackson take me back to the Bell.’